[You're standing outside, and though the air around you isn't dark or otherwise obscured, it's still somehow impossible to make out clearly what all is surrounding you here. It seems as though it's some kind of amphitheater, though, with a sort of clearing in the middle and some sort of barrier all around you in the distance; there are flashes of color and little hints of movement that suggest something is out there, but no matter how far you might walk toward it, it never comes any closer or gets any clearer.
The center of the clearing, however, is entirely in focus. There's a raised platform, round, raised up perhaps five feet off the ground — high enough that you'd have to jump or climb to scale it, but not so high that you can't see what's happening atop it from your vantage point on the ground.
Oddly, nothing seems to be happening on it. Fawkes is standing there, alone, seemingly paralyzed; the position he's in doesn't look comfortable at all to be holding himself still in, but rather like something he'd been transitioning through when someone abruptly told him to freeze.
As if on cue, a frightened voice in the distance rings out: don't move, Kurama!
In the moments that follow, Fawkes's gaze meets yours, and the whites of his eyes are visible even from this distance.
A few seconds later, a different voice chimes in — lower, silkier, and infinitely more dangerous: why not move? You're such a masochist; I'll bet deep down you want to feel it, don't you?
If you decide to approach, Fawkes's alarm and agitation will only increase — but really, what else is there for you to do right now, but that?]
NIGHTMARE - ARENA (cw: sadism, torture, bombs)
The center of the clearing, however, is entirely in focus. There's a raised platform, round, raised up perhaps five feet off the ground — high enough that you'd have to jump or climb to scale it, but not so high that you can't see what's happening atop it from your vantage point on the ground.
Oddly, nothing seems to be happening on it. Fawkes is standing there, alone, seemingly paralyzed; the position he's in doesn't look comfortable at all to be holding himself still in, but rather like something he'd been transitioning through when someone abruptly told him to freeze.
As if on cue, a frightened voice in the distance rings out: don't move, Kurama!
In the moments that follow, Fawkes's gaze meets yours, and the whites of his eyes are visible even from this distance.
A few seconds later, a different voice chimes in — lower, silkier, and infinitely more dangerous: why not move? You're such a masochist; I'll bet deep down you want to feel it, don't you?
If you decide to approach, Fawkes's alarm and agitation will only increase — but really, what else is there for you to do right now, but that?]